For the field ran so red with the blood of the dead,
That it blushed liked the waves of hell!
Then loudly, and wildly, and long laugh’d he:
“Methinks they have here little need of me!”
* * * * *
But the softest note that soothed his ear
Was the sound of a widow sighing;
And the sweetest sight was the icy tear,
Which horror froze in the blue eye clear
Of a maid by her lover lying—